Broken Machines
by shakespeareia
Summary: Nicholas Grantaire, the last neurologist in the colonial fleet, is ordered by Admiral Evan Cain to interrogate a captured, tortured cylon - unaware that the creature in question is remarkably similar to the man who stole his heart on Tauron. Warnings - Slash, genderbending


**A.N.: this was inspired by a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme - with Grantaire as Baltar, and Enjolras as Gina Inviere. So yes, a lot of gender-bending.**

**Enjoy!**

Sometimes, he wonders what landed him this job in the first place. He's – was - nothing but a drunken neurosurgeon – and political apathetic. And atheist. A nothing, and a nobody.

So how the _frak_ did he end up as the resident toaster expert and fleet celebrity?

Probably about the time when he pointed out the chunk of chrome latched to the ceiling of the CIC – the only person who recognized it as a state of the art cylon bug.

Yeah, probably then.

_You're fortunate, I hope you realize that. After all, what would you tell them, had they asked you?_

He tightens his eyelids, tries to push through and ignore it – Gods, if this was the bridge between sanity and mind-numbing lunacy than by all that was holy he'd jump into the river underneath - anything, _anything _had to be better than this persistent... tickling...

"Doctor?"

He snaps back to reality with a jolt.

"Ah –um –sorry." Came the garbled response, and he feels his face burst into flame.

The Admiral just gives him the pointed look that he's learned to be familiar with – the one that plainly accuses him of being a nutcase. He's getting ready to start believing it himself.

"As I was saying, they've told me you've been specializing in cylon detection."

"Um... yeah."

He can probably smell the liquor on his breath – just as well that he's a civilian, otherwise he'd probably find himself on the wrong side of an air-lock –

_Wouldn't that be ironic?_

_Shut up! SHUT UP!_

His flush deepens, and he can't help a shy glance at the other man's face.

Admiral Cain isn't exactly what he'd imagined as military officer material – he's young, far younger than William Adama, and there's a soft fragility about his black eyes... Otherwise, he's a human Ares.

" –We have our own cylon prisoner. I'd like you to examine it."

Everything seems to freeze...

"Um – yes, sure..."

"If possible, try and see if you can glean anything from it."

He nods mutely, mind whirling...

_'Wonder who it'll be..._

Gods, he can almost hear the smirk... that beautiful half-smile...

_A stranger? Familiar face? Trusted friend who suddenly turns out to be the enemy?_

Fingers seemed to trace his knuckles; he can almost _smell_ the cologne... something soft and earthy, like cinnamon...

"Did you hear what I just said?"

It's practically a growl, and it rips him back to reality... Cain's glaring at him now, hawk nosed and strangely, savagely beautiful...

Like _he'd_ been, in some ways...

"Um – y-yeah, I'd be more than happy to –"

"Good."

* * *

The hallways are all black, metallic, with as many twists and curves as a rat's maze, and it astounds him that Lieutenant Thorne has the slightest idea of where she's headed.

Then again, under Cain's rule, he'd work his ass off knowing every bolt in that ship as well.

If the admiral is Ares, than this woman is Cerberus. There's nothing attractive in her bull-dog face or blunt manner, and... it's crazy, but... something about it is almost eerie...

"Don't get too close." She drawls suddenly. The only suitable descriptive adjective he can think of is _bored_. "This thing killed seven of my crew."

He nods, avoiding her eyes, and it's all he can do not to scream _"Bitch!_" straight into her face – although there's no way for him to explain why.

"You want some guards to go in with you?"

_You aren't frightened, are you Nicholas? You don't need the soldiers to protect you from the evil cylon..._

Gold hair brushes the side of his face, and for one instant he can taste the liquor, feel the late night cool, and the clutch of long fingers against the fabric of his shirt...

"N-no, thanks, I should be fine..."

She shrugs, and lets the brig door slide open – and the world crashes to pieces.

The nonexistent breath beside his ear seems to still, and become a rasp of horror, and it's like witnessing a car wreck – you don't want to see the twisted metal, the broken bodies, but something disgusting and primal wants you to watch and see the full scale of the atrocity of humankind...

There's a wall of glass looming in front of him, and several feet beyond it, a male figure is crumpled, motionless, upon an imprinted metal floor. There's only a tattered prison tunic covering his torso, and nothing past his hipbones. Steel cuffs encircle his ankles, wrists, and neck. His face is swollen, and his lips broken and oozing blood, but it's unmistakable...

_Oh my God..._ the voice whispers, and the shattered way in which he invokes his deity is nearly enough to inspire pity...

_... It's me..._

He can even hear something that might just be tears...

_Wh-what have they done to him?!_

His voice almost shakes when he asks Thorne to open the cell for him – if disgust was anything like what he felt before, then this is what the sensation of hatred is truly like... a chill to the blood, a rush to the brain...

The immediate stench of the air is overpowering – a mind-numbing reek of feces, blood, tears, sweat, and fear... Months old.

His eyes begin to water –he's not sure if it's from the smell, or if they're just tears...

He hasn't cried in a long time... Nothing seemed important enough...

"He – he must have struggled, fought back –" he mutters brokenly to the fleeting shadow just behind his shoulder – just out of sight, out of reach...

"After all... you've always been a rebel."

_That doesn't justify _this_!_

"Stop it!"

The severity of the order startles them both – he's never actually talked back...

The face is bashed and bloody, and there's no response when he strokes two fingers across a green-bruised cheek... the shape probably made by a blunt blow from a foot, instead of a fist... nut-brown hair is sheared unevenly all over his scalp, probably from a forced hair-cut, but there are no lacerations or bruising... He yanks a penlight from the pocket of his jeans and flashes the beam into blue eyes... Involuntary movement... he's thinking consciously then, but...

_For the love of God, will you stop being a brain surgeon for one moment, and LOOK at what's in front of you?! –_

"Leave." Grantaire chokes out finally, "I know this is... hard, for you, but –"

_Don't patronize me, you bastard!_

"Leave us alone... please, just – Look, if I'm gonna help him at all –"

_Are you, Nicholas? Are you?!_

"Why wouldn't I?! I mean... look at him."

There is silence, and for a moment he wonders if the wetness against his neck is running sweat or a fallen tear.

"Please... leave..."

Then suddenly the air is free, and the cell seems less confined...

* * *

He pauses for breath, and knows at a glance that however much he spews about cognitive function and neuro-impulses, Cain has obviously long since made up his mind – the young man in the cell is a machine, and will remain so.

"It –" the pronoun sticks in Grantaire's throat, and he practically spits it out...

"It's obviously... traumatized, which means that cylon mentality is susceptible to the same... pressures that can affect humans. To put it bluntly –" he pauses, and runs both hands through his unruly curls...

Cain wheels around, and fixes him with a glare, his feminine lips pressed thin –

"Well?"

"Um -Admiral, you've tried using a stick. Let's try a carrot instead."

* * *

The mess lives up to it's name quite well aboard the _Pegasus_, and it's with some trepidation that he glances over the available rations.

"Can I help you?"

He breathes deeply.

"Yeah, um – you know the cylon being held in your brig -?"

"Aw frak yeah –" the galley assistant smirks, brushing a strand of dyed blond hair out of her eyes – her supply must be running short, because the mud-colored roots are showing. "Had my go twice – didn't matter too much, it was like- like, doing a vegetable, ya know? But hot as frak –"

"Ok, well," he cuts her off quickly, feeling the fury bubbling in his gut, and he needs his mind clear for what he's about to do...

"When – when it was still infiltrating, what..."

She's staring at him now, and he knows she's figured out what's coming, and it's more than her compacted brain can handle –

"- what did it like to eat?"

* * *

His body remains limp, and there's not a single response when the marines unlock the shackles – no pain, no fear, no relief...

It's harder to watch then he had expected initially.

The marines back out, still giving him strange looks, because who shows pity to a toaster – particularly a broken-down one?

The door slides shut, and Grantaire lets himself sink to the floor, the steel wall bracing his spine.

There's no movement from the figure on the floor, but he can't help but feel that his every involuntary twitch is being watched.

He gnaws at his lip a moment.

"That – that food's for you." He whispers eventually, nodding to the plate a few feet away. A couple of rasin muffins, sliced apples, and a bowl of tomato soup...

Still no reaction.

"It's not a trick, I'm –I'm not gonna snatch it away, just take your time..."

They sit in silence for a while, one leaning his head upon his knees, fingers clutching at black curls as he fights to keep his emotions in check, the other barely breathing.

"You know, b –" and Grant stops himself and realizes what he's saying , and it might be exactly the wrong thing but now he's started he might as well finish -

"b-before... everything... I had an apartment on Tauron. Nothing amazing, just four walls and a roof... and while I was there, I... I met someone. A man. Like... nothing I'd ever known... Handsome, intelligent... chaste, but – _so _sexual... so passionate... and when-"

His throat begins to tighten –

"- when I wasn't drunk, with my hand down my pants, I'd hear his voice... no words, just the resonance, the sound... reminding me how... useless I was, compared to him. He was – he was Apollo incarnate. And since then, there has _literally_ never been a day when I don't think about him. Because I... love him. I don't think I've stopped loving him, even when – when..."

He 's shaking now, his voice broken, and he can't bring himself to look at his one listener.

"He was a cylon. And –"

Green eyes flicker up to the crumpled body not five feet away...

"-and he had your face."

Still silence... except for their thickened breathing...

"I'm... I'm Nicholas Grantaire, and... p-please... let me help you..."

His eyes flutter shut, and a few tears stream free – there's a sudden _clunk_ of bone on metal, and he watches through cracked eyelids as a clearly sprained wrist reaches hesitantly, painfully, toward a slice of fruit...

Grantaire watches the muscles of his face move with every grind of his teeth, and listens to his quiet sobs... and lets the man who broke his heart innumerable times do so yet again – for quite a different reason.

* * *

It takes another six hours for the cell door to slide open, and Cain to enter with two armed marines flanking him.

He's almost smirking, and on his strangely attractive face it turns unspeakably ugly.

"So." He mutters, glancing at the half-empty dishes on the floor. "I see you got it to eat."

The man on the floor is looking at him now, and there's such a wild mix of fear, hatred, and longing written on his face that Grantaire feels a knot form in his chest...

Cain's half-smile grows uglier.

"Can you get it to roll over? Beg?"

He's pacing now, like an animal taunting prey before tearing it to pieces – the prey is trembling on the floor, broken hands coming up slowly to shield his face...

"You know, this _thing_ used to sit in our mess. Just sit there... eat our food, laugh, listen to our stories. Didn't you? You'd sit there and pretend to be our friend..."

Grantaire lets his hands clench, and realizes both men are shaking, one with fear, the other with fury.

_"DIDN'T YOU?!_" Cain roars suddenly, a combat boot lashing out and catching the victim in his ribs – all he gets in return is a terrified whimper –

"Admiral, please –"

Cain turns, startled, as Grantaire flails for an excuse...

"A- any contact with the subject could cause regression."

The officer growls, turning back to the prisoner with rage still engraved on every inch of his face – yet beneath it, an undercurrent of hurt... He spits on him a last time, and stalks out, his guards with him.

* * *

"I want to die."

Grantaire glances up, eyes wide at the familiar voice – real this time, not a figment of his shell-shocked, tortured brain...

His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen with bruises, but just as blue...

"Will you help me do that? Would you kill me?"

Swallowing hard, Grantaire leans forward and closer, biting his lip – if he doesn't, he'll be sobbing...

"I – I have to ask – did you... know, or were you activated later, and..."

He trails off, hoping the meaning is clear. Apparently it is. When he speaks again, his voice shakes, already hoarse from disuse.

"I... knew what I was. I was a soldier, I... I had a mission, I carried it out. I thought that when it was done, I would die. I thought you would kill me. Then I –"

He sobs, and the contrast is so complete, so jarring – the idea that a man with that face could be vulnerable almost makes Grantaire break down himself...

" – then I would download into a new body... be reborn. But you... you didn't kill me... God, the things you did to me..."

"What they did to you was... wrong..." he cut across slowly. "Evil. But I..." And he pauses, because this is just another betrayal of humanity, one he can add to his endless list...

"... I'm not one of them. Please, you – you have to believe me, things will be better for you. From this moment, I swear –"

"I don't want things to get better." The cylon murmurs into the metal floor. "I want to die."

* * *

It takes near to a week for him to speak again. Grantaire doesn't push him, just rambles. Mainly reminisces. Let's himself fantasize.

"You know what I miss?" he mentions one day, out of nowhere. "From... before?"

There's no response, not that he was expecting one.

"Sports."

Not a flicker of an eyelid, a twitch of a finger. Nothing.

"I used to... go to the pyramid matches at the mid-week – if I timed it right I'd be sitting down just at the fire-up. And... and the scores, the gambling, it didn't matter – that was ridiculous. It was just... the energy in the crowd, the _humanity_, and I could just sit in the sun and let it wash over me... and... and I always had two seats... one for me... and one for you. I mean, I knew I'd never convince you to go with me, it was too... too much, but I – I liked to... feel that you were there with me."

That gets him a tear.

* * *

"Gabriel."

"What –"

"My name is Gabriel."

He sounds as though he's run the length of the ship and back.

"I- I'm honored."

After that there's silence, until –

"I want to show you."

"Sh –"

"Humans always say 'If you talk about it, you'll feel better.' Let me do better then that, and show you."

His breath shaking, Grantaire lets himself nod.

Suddenly he's pinned to the floor, a pair of strong but delicate hands locked around his throat, and it feels like a static shock has gone off inside his skull, he can feel it sparking behind his eyes, and then –

_He has a simple job. Just a systems analyst. He's good enough at it that the others joke he wired himself into the mainframe. They have no idea..._

_He's popular with the crew. With one member in particular._

_The Threes always talk about the Between, something beautiful in the center of life and death that neither humans or cylons can comprehend – but they're wrong._

_There is a Between within life, and it bears the name and face of Evan Cain._

_The other officers get embarrassed when he comes to the Main Cabin for dinner, and it's even worse when Evan kisses him hello. Their reactions, that is, not Evan. He's beautiful..._

_He tries to keep himself detached, but as he spends every night in the Admiral's bunk it becomes more and more difficult..._

_The attack comes. He fills his role – the gun batteries are down, navigation is down, and the hatches are open._

_Lieutenant Shaw finds him in the corridor and sends him to the CIC – the more fool him. But he can't be blamed really, he doesn't know..._

_When he reaches the bridge, Evan seizes him and kisses his mouth in full view of the crew – no one cares. There's too much panic for anyone to gape. Within minutes his fingers are flying on the keyboard, Evan's touch on his back pleasant and enough to send guilt hurtling through his belly. He'll regret leaving that behind – _

_Shaw bursts in, aims a gun at his head, and he knows it's over._

_Cain defends him. Shaw turns on the security monitors, displaying a bloodied corpse with the face of the Admiral's lover, slumped against a wall in corridor GN-3. _

_Cain stares, and backs away from him as if the mere touch burns, and his order to the marines is a mere prick compared to the pain from the disbelief, disgust, and hatred in his unbelievably blue eyes – _

_"Get that thing off my gun deck."_

_He breaks two necks. He severs a spine, seizes the side arm and levels it at Cain's head – and freezes._

_He never has the chance to make up his mind, before Shaw clubs him with a rifle and everything blacks out._

_The first few hours in the cell are a torture in themselves... waiting, waiting, waiting... for the gas, for the bullet, for death..._

_None of which ever come._

_He can hear Cain and Shaw discussing him outside the cell – and he's not alive anymore, he's a thing to both of them – to Evan – and somehow that hurts more than it should._

_Then a woman comes in, recognizable from the early days when he went around, logging the computer systems... she has a face that never changes expression, and a body like a rock._

_Evan calls her Thorne, but that's not what sends him reeling – silently, without a flinch..._

_"I want you to – interrogate the prisoner... so, pain –yes, of course... humiliation... degradation... fear... shame. Be as creative as you want."_

_Cain doesn't even look back when he leaves._

_He's cuffed to the floor, all but stripped to the skin. He's beaten like the sandbags in the gym. He's whipped brutally and without mercy. He's starved, and teased with bits of meat like a dog, until he's made to literally beg for it. And then..._

_He sees their faces, even with his lids open, in the blinding light. Women, men... it doesn't matter. He's a machine, which makes him nothing but a good-looking frak toy – and fair game._

_After a while, he wishes his programming would just shut down. If he _is _just a machine... a thing, what they always remind him, every chance they can... then that would be the closest thing to mercy God can give him. Now that He's turned his back..._

_Evan comes to see him one more time. No words, no tears – just a blank stare through the glass wall. He wonders if he even recognizes him..._

The connection seems to break, and Grantaire scrambles back, heaving for breath, and ready to vomit...

**A.N. - Review please!**


End file.
